Alex Lake - Seven Days

So that one hit had to work. She had to maximize its effect. And for that she needed one more element, an element she thought she might have figured out.

The man opened the door. He was holding a tray, and he locked the door, his attention on the key.

When he turned to Maggie, he frowned.

‘What?’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’

Maggie was sitting on the mattress. She smiled at him. Max was sleeping on the floor, his head on a pillow; it had been a struggle to get him to go to sleep.

She stood up. The man’s gaze moved up and down her body.

Her naked body.

‘Put the tray down,’ she said, in the closest approximation she could manage of a sultry tone. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion but she could see the sudden flare of desire in them.

Desire for sex, yes, but more for love.

He bent at the waist and placed the tray on the ground and she launched herself at him, hitting him hard in the small of his back. He fell forward and there was a thud as his head hit the wall. The tray fell to the floor, the plate and cup clattering together before settling on to the carpet. She grabbed for the key, but he twisted his hand away and rolled on to his back, staring at her, his breathing heavy. Blood beaded on his forehead. He put his finger to it, and examined his blood.

‘You fool,’ he said. ‘You stupid fool. You really think that is enough to hurt me?’

He levered himself up on to his elbows then stood up. Maggie took a step backwards. It was over, already. Her plan had failed miserably. And now he was going to punish her.

At least Max was still asleep. He was a good sleeper, so she doubted he’d wake up. She was glad; he didn’t need to see this.

He grabbed her upper arm and shoved her, hard. The gasp she made as her back hit the wall and the air left her lungs reminded her of his strength, of the strength she had thought – ridiculously – she could overpower.

And now, the payback.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ she said.

The man contemplated her.

‘Fruitcake,’ he said. ‘My little Fruitcake. I understand why you did that. I’m not inhuman. I know how hard what’s to come will be for you. But it’s for the best. I can’t leave him with you. If I do, we won’t be able to be together.’

Maggie didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The fear of what he was going to do to Max and her anger at her failure to save him were too great.

‘So I won’t do anything to you, this time.’ His expression hardened. ‘But don’t do it again, Fruitcake. This is your one free pass, OK?’

She nodded.

He smiled.

‘Love you,’ he said, and unlocked the door.

Martin Cooper opened his eyes. He looked at his watch; it was almost four thirty in the morning, which meant he’d been asleep for around two hours.

That was all he was going to get.

It had been two nights. He rubbed his eyes. They felt raw. The night Maggie disappeared he hadn’t slept at all and, with tonight’s two restless hours, he could feel the exhaustion building up. It made no difference, though. There was no way he would be able to sleep again.

And he didn’t want to. He wanted to find his daughter.

He got out of bed and crossed the landing to her room. He opened the door and looked inside, half-expecting, half-hoping, to see a shape in her bed, sleeping off the effects of wherever she’d been.

It was empty.

On his way back from the park the night she disappeared he’d called the police and reported she was missing.

We’ll put out an alert , the officer he spoke to said, but she’s probably with a friend. More than likely she’ll turn up in the morning .

Except he’d spoken to all her friends and she wasn’t with them, and they didn’t know of anyone else she would have been with, any boy or man she’d mentioned.

So he and Sandra and James and his brother, Tony, and his friend from work, Reid, and Freddie, his neighbour, had spent the day looking for her. Between them they’d gone to every pub in Warrington and Manchester and Liverpool and Wigan and St Helens and anywhere else they could think of, and shown them a photo of Maggie.

None of them remembered seeing her. Quite a few said they couldn’t be sure.

Busy night, mate. Lots of people in here. Have you tried the cops?

He had. They hadn’t done much. They were looking for her, but they still thought she’d show up.

He’d lost track of the number of times he’d heard someone say most of the time teenagers do.

Most of the time wasn’t good enough. And Martin knew his little girl. She hadn’t gone off with a new boyfriend, enjoying herself while her parents worried. Some teenagers would – and maybe they were the ones that showed up – but not Mags. Not his Fruitcake.

If she was missing there was a reason, and he needed to find her.

He hadn’t, though. He came home, eventually, at one a.m., flat and exhausted and terrified. He’d slept, for those two hours.

And now he was awake. He didn’t know when he would ever be able to sleep again.

Next to him, Sandra rolled on to her side. Her breathing quickened and she sighed.

‘Are you awake?’ he said.

‘Yes. I barely slept.’

‘Me neither.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘It’s four thirty-seven.’

Their bedroom door opened slowly. James stood in the frame. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I was waiting for you to wake up.’

‘You should have come in,’ Martin said. He felt a surge of love for his son. ‘Anytime you need me, I’m here.’

‘It’s early.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Dad,’ James said. ‘Can we go and look for her?’

Martin replaced the nozzle in the petrol pump and walked across the garage forecourt to pay. The car had been full the day before, but he had driven every street and park and country road for miles around. Martin had marked the ones they had driven on a map with a fluorescent marker and there were very few left. He had driven slowly, James looking out of one side, him looking out of the other. At every open pub or newsagent or café or clothes shop or place that looked like it might have attracted a fifteen-year-old they had stopped and shown photos of Maggie.

No one had seen her.

He scanned the shop as he entered, in case Maggie was inside buying chewing gum or a magazine or a packet of cigarettes. He hoped she was. He hoped he found his fifteen-year-old daughter buying cigarettes, because then he would know she was safe.

Because then he would have her back, and he could sleep and eat and breathe and live again.

He handed his card to the shop assistant.

‘Number six,’ he said. As she rang it up, he put the photos of Maggie – one a close-up of her face taken a couple of weeks ago, the other her school portrait – on the counter.

‘You haven’t seen this girl, have you?’ he asked.

The woman – about his age and with a pinched, smoker’s face – gave him a suspicious look.

‘No,’ she said. ‘She missing?’

‘Yes. She’s my daughter.’

The looked softened into one of sympathy.

‘Oh. How long’s she been gone?’

‘Two nights.’

Just saying it made him feel sick with worry. It had a similar effect on the woman.

‘Two nights is two nights too long,’ she said. ‘Hold on. I’ll be right back.’

She picked up the photos and walked through a door into an office. A few minutes later she came back holding a sheaf of paper.

‘Photocopies,’ she said. ‘I can hand them out, see if anyone recognizes her. Give me your number and I’ll make sure we let you know.’